“I’m trying to trace his last days.” Jackson jotted down her answer. “How did he seem to you? Was he worried or stressed about anything?”
She squinted. “He’d been kind of depressed and had something on his mind, but it was probably work related.”
Typical for a police officer. Jackson had to ask. “Where were you Friday night between five and nine?”
“You’re shittin’ me. You think I could have killed him?” She shook her head. “Fuck you.”
A real charmer. He wondered how Thompson had ended up with her. She was pretty, no doubt, with nice breasts and long legs. But the scenario with her ex should have made Thompson wary. “Tell me where you were Friday night.”
She glared. “I left here after work to go visit my niece in a treatment center in Corvallis. It’s called Milestones. You can call them.”
He heard the front door open on the other side of the wall, and a man’s voice demanded, “Where is Trisha? I want her to see this.”
Jackson leapt to his feet and so did Trisha.
“That’s Gene!” Eyes wide with uncertainty.
The receptionist’s response was meek. “I don’t think she’s here.”
“I see her fucking car out there! And I’m gonna torch it.”
“No!” Trisha Weber ran for the front.
Jackson charged after her, hand reaching for his weapon. In the lobby, he yelled, “Call 911! I need backup.”
The front door slammed as Trisha scurried out to the parking lot. Jackson glanced out the window and didn’t see either of them. He pushed past a patient and bolted outside.
A man in a denim jacket was at the end of the lot, pouring gas on a small red car. Burns didn’t have a weapon that he could see, so Jackson didn’t want to draw his Sig Sauer. Instead, he rushed to his own vehicle and grabbed a Taser from under the front seat. The stun gun seemed like the best way to put him on the ground.
He jogged past the row of cars, stun gun ready. “Put the gas can down! Hands in the air!”
Burns glanced over at him, hesitated for a second, then dropped the red plastic container. He reached in a chest pocket and flicked the lighter in one quick motion. “Stop right there, or I’ll scorch this piece of shit.”
Jackson kept advancing. “Put your hands in the air!”
Burns tossed the lighter onto the hood of the car, and flames shot across the trail of gas. The suspect turned and charged toward the fence, only ten feet away.
Jackson sprinted, closing the distance as Burns scrambled up the pickets. As Jackson reached the flaming car, he pressed the trigger and let the prongs fly. One hit Gene in the leg, and the other smacked into the wooden fence. The suspect dropped to the other side, and Jackson heard him hit the ground running. Crap! He sprinted back to his car to radio for help, hoping that a patrol unit was already on the way.
CHAPTER 15
Sunday, November 23, 11:11 a.m.
In his car, Jackson gulped two naproxen sodium to calm the pain in his gut, then checked his watch. Time for his meeting with the chief. As he drove back to the department, he reflexively kept an eye out for Gene Burns. The ex-con’s torching of the car indicated he wasn’t rational about Trisha Weber, which meant he could have killed her new boyfriend as well. When Thompson’s phone records came through, Jackson expected to find threatening calls from Burns. For now, he had a statewide alert out to law enforcement to watch for the suspect.
He found Chief Warner and Sergeant Lammers in the big main conference room with Jackie Matthews, the department spokesperson. They all looked up as he came in. Jackson squared his shoulders, telling himself he’d made the right calls yesterday in dealing with the twins. Or had he? If he’d booked them into jail, even on trumped-up charges, Henry wouldn’t be dead. Not necessarily, he corrected himself. Jail was a dangerous place for people with mental illnesses or compliance issues. The deputies used Tasers on inmates, and one had died a few years back. Jackson greeted everyone and took a seat.
“We have a serious shit-storm developing,” Warner said. “That activist, Willow, is outraged about Henry Walsh’s death, and she’s stirring up everybody.” He pointed at Jackson. “You released the other twin last night, and he must have gone straight to Willow.”
He’d braced for this, yet it still upset him. “Jacob Walsh was hysterical and needed mental health assistance. I had no reason to arrest him.”
“You could have come up with something.”
This bullshit from the chief? “I don’t operate that way, and jail could have been dangerous for him.”
Lammers cut in. “What’s important is how we move forward. Do we have a plan?” She focused on the chief.
“We need to shut this down before anyone else gets hurt.” Warner locked eyes with Jackson. “You need to make a public statement that Henry Walsh’s fingerprints were on the weapon that killed Officer Thompson. But that his death was a tragic accident.”
The chief wanted him to implicate the homeless man. “I can’t do that. Not yet.”
Lammers started to say something, but Jackson cut in. “One, the autopsy hasn’t been done, and we don’t know for sure that the broken bottle is the weapon.” He counted off his points with his fingers for emphasis. “Two, the matching print is on the base of the bottle, not the neck, where it would be held as a weapon. And three, I have another viable suspect.”
Before he could explain, the chief cut in. “I know it’s premature, but we have officers out there who are grieving, scared, and outraged. Some have already been taking out their anger on street people. Now we have a gathering of homeless people and bleeding-heart citizens who are equally upset. This is potentially explosive.” Warner raised his voice to a near shout. “You have to shut it down!”
This wasn’t his fault. Trembling with anger, Jackson blurted, “It was your call to let the twins go yesterday.”
The room echoed with silence.
Jackson hoped he hadn’t gone too far. He tried to clarify his position. “Thompson was dating a woman named Trisha Weber. Her ex-boyfriend was jealous of their relationship, and this morning he set her car on fire. I have a statewide alert to find him. Gene Burns has more motive than the homeless twins.”
The chief fiddled with a pen, mulling it over. “We’ll hold off on publicly labeling Henry Walsh as the killer. But you only have twenty-four hours to get something solid on Burns. If you don’t, you’ll make the statement, shut down the investigation, and build a case against Walsh.” The chief turned to the department’s spokeswoman. “Put out a release calling Walsh’s death a tragic accident. Tell the press we plan to investigate it thoroughly as well as take measures to make sure something like this doesn’t happen again.” Warner stood. “Move quickly, please. We have officers assigned to keep an eye on the protestors, and we can’t afford another PR disaster.”
Jackson nodded and started for the door. He understood Warner’s frustration. The department had recently suffered serious blows to its reputation. Sexual assault of female detainees and thousands of dollars in cash, drugs, and valuables missing from evidence lockers. Just to name the worst of it. Now, a homeless man had been killed by a police officer. A man who might not be guilty of anything but leaving an empty beer bottle in an area frequented by dozens of homeless people.
In the bright foyer, the desk clerk called to him. “An officer just picked up Gene Burns and is booking him into jail.”
“No. Bring him here.” Jackson hated doing interrogations at the jail, but at least Burns’ act of arson gave them a reason to hold him. “We’ll take him over later.”
“I’ll let the officer know.”
“I’ll be in my office. Let me know when Burns is in the hole.” He wouldn’t call Evans or Quince for this one. They were searching Thompson’s house this morning, and continuing the investigation was more important. Gene Burns was a long shot as a suspect. But his prints were in the
system, and the crime lab would compare them to the evidence in the morning.
Jackson trudged upstairs, trying not to grimace in pain. The anti-inflammatories typically took half an hour to kick in. At his desk, he opened the Word file with case notes and did an update. But he didn’t have much to add, so he keyed Gene Burns into the database to check his record. The man’s file went back twenty years. A local with a drug and alcohol problem who went for periods of time with no trouble, then relapsed and got out of control. Reckless driving, drug possession, and intimidating and assaulting girlfriends was the typical pattern. Burns had also been charged with sexual assault twice, but had never been convicted.
Jackson called Burns’ parole officer as a courtesy and left a message: “I’ve got Gene Burns in custody for setting fire to his ex-girlfriend’s car. I’m also questioning him about Officer Dan Thompson’s death. Call me if you have anything to contribute.” Being Sunday, he didn’t expect a call back. But POs worked odd hours, checking up on their charges, so it could happen.
His desk phone rang, and he wondered when the old-school devices would become completely obsolete. The front desk officer notified him that Gene Burns was waiting in interrogation.
Even seated, Burns was tall enough to be intimidating. But his arms were skinny, and the skin on his cheeks sagged in an unhealthy way. The arresting officer had left him cuffed with his hands behind his back, and Jackson didn’t plan to spring him. Burns’ dark, angry eyes watched Jackson’s every move as he took a seat, set out his recorder, and spread out three crime scene photos facedown.
“Did the arresting officer read you your rights?”
“Yes, but it don’t matter. I burned the bitch’s car, and you saw me. Let’s talk deal.”
“This isn’t about the car.” His gravest tone.
Burns tensed, then overcorrected with an exaggerated shrug. “So what’s the problem?”
“Where were you Friday night between six and nine?”
“Ah, let’s see. That was two days ago. I went to Cottage Grove to apply for a job.”
It sounded like bullshit. “At night? What job?”
“A construction job. I talked to a guy named Mike. I can’t remember his last name.”
More bullshit. “What time did you get back?”
“I don’t know. Maybe eight.”
Jackson leaned back, giving the suspect an amused smile. “So this is your story. Friday evening, you drove to Cottage Grove in the dark, thirty minutes away, and talked to a guy named Mike about a construction job, then drove back. And that took at least two hours. Is that correct?” Step one was to catch him in a provable lie.
A hesitation. “Yeah. Why? What’s this about?”
“If you lie to me, everything changes. A judge will give me a subpoena for your DNA, then the district attorney will file charges and convene a grand jury. If you’re convicted, you’ll get the death penalty.”
Burns’ eyes flashed with fear. “Whoa. Whatever it is, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“You’re sticking to your story? Does Mike have a phone number? Can you prove where you were?”
The suspect swallowed hard. “Tell me what the fuck this is about.”
“Your ex, Trisha Weber, says you threatened her new boyfriend.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.” A desperate smile in an attempt to be charming.
“Now he’s dead. Gutted with a broken bottle.”
Burns squeezed his eyes shut, then leaned forward, his tone panicked. “I’m not a killer. I never even saw the guy.”
“Here, let me show you.” Jackson turned over one of the crime scene photos. “Officer Dan Thompson. We have the murder weapon, and your prints are on file. It’s just a matter of time before we connect you to the crime.”
“Oh Jesus.” Burns looked away, focusing on the door.
“Tell me what happened, and I can get the DA to keep you off death row.”
“I didn’t do this.”
Time to empathize, pry open his defenses, and get him to admit something. “I know you didn’t just stalk and kill him. Something happened. Did Thompson tell you to back off? Were you intimidated?” Jackson didn’t believe it for a second and silently begged his fallen colleague for forgiveness.
“We had words, and it got a little ugly. But that was a week ago.”
“So you lied about not seeing him.”
No response.
“Where did the altercation happen?”
“At Trisha’s. I stopped by, and the cop was there. And it got to me.” Burns was looking for sympathy now. “I loved her, and she said she’d wait for me. Then I find her with another man. And he’s a cop! No offense, but that was salt in the wound.”
“So you threatened Officer Thompson?”
“I yelled at both of them. I don’t remember what I said.” Deadpan tone, eyes rigid.
Another lie. “I think you do remember. And I’m sure Trisha does. Did you threaten to kill Dan Thompson?” He needed to talk to the girlfriend again.
“Maybe. But he said he’d call in more cops and arrest me, so I left.”
“When did you see Thompson again?”
“I didn’t.” Burns grimaced in pain. “Will you take these cuffs off? And get me some water? Or take me back to jail. I’m done talking.”
Jackson turned over the other photos. “You have no alibi. Your ex-girlfriend will testify that you threatened to kill Thompson. All we need is one piece of physical evidence, and you’re going down for killing a police officer. You need to confess in exchange for a life sentence with the possibility of parole in twenty years.”
“It’s not gonna happen.”
Jackson’s phone rang, and it was a number he didn’t recognize at first. Then he realized it was Burns’ parole officer. “Jackson here. Thanks for the callback.” He stood and turned away from the suspect, ready to step out if necessary.
“Why do you think Burns killed Dan Thompson?” the PO asked.
“Thompson was dating his ex, and Burns threatened him.”
“Shit. How did Thompson die? I haven’t heard the details.”
Parole and probation were handled by the county, and those officers were more overworked than the city’s safety department. “He was stabbed in the neck and stomach with a broken bottle of Colt 45.”
“Goddamn. I just heard that Gene Burns had a run-in last week with another felon. And Burns threatened him with a broken beer bottle. I think you’ve got your man.”
CHAPTER 16
Sunday, November 23, 11:55 a.m.
Schak stopped at Subway and bought a foot-long pastrami sandwich and oversize cookie. Hunger had burned a hole in his gut since Danny’s death. It didn’t seem normal, but he had so much on his mind, he didn’t bother to resist. He took the food out to his car, where he seemed to spend most of his waking hours during the first week of an investigation. Even when he wasn’t working, he didn’t spend much time at home, preferring instead to take his boat out on the river. He and Tracy each had their own careers, hobbies, and friends, but they connected every day in some small way, and he couldn’t imagine his life without her. He picked up his phone to call her, but it rang in his hand.
“Rob, it’s Kurt. I can’t stop thinking about Danny. Do you know anything yet?” His cousin’s voice reflected the same grief Schak felt.
Schak was glad to be busy. “The word is that a homeless guy named Henry Walsh killed him. Maybe aided by his twin brother. And we have Henry’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.” Schak had heard that from Joe at the lab, but he realized he needed to call Jackson for a current update.
“Thank god,” Kurt said. “I’m glad they got the guy. It doesn’t bring Danny back, but it helps.”
“I know what you mean. How are you and Aunt Donna holding up?”
“We’re okay
. Mostly quiet and sad. Mom wants to plan a service but doesn’t know when they’ll release him.”
“I’m sure they’ll do the autopsy first thing Monday morning. After that, she can call and have a mortuary pick up his body.” Schak felt queasy talking about his cousin that way. “But the department will plan a funeral procession too. Donna should call Jackie Matthews to coordinate.”
“I’ll tell her.” A pause. “You and Tracy should come by Mom’s tonight for dinner. It would be good to have you around right now.”
“That sounds good.” He meant it, but not with Tracy. Donna and Kurt would expect him to drink with them—and he wouldn’t be able to say no—and that wouldn’t go over well with his wife. “I don’t think Tracy can make it. Plus, I’m working today, so I might not be there in time for dinner, but I’ll stop by on my way home.”
“See you then.”
They hung up, and Schak worried about how his family would react to his quitting drinking. His dad wouldn’t care, but his mother wouldn’t understand, and neither would Aunt Donna or the rest of the Thompson clan. They didn’t trust people who didn’t drink. Thinking about it made him want a beer to wash down the last of his sandwich. He settled for the cold coffee in his thermos instead.
At the department, he searched the patrol logs for the dates of the incidents. No record of parties being broken up or sexual assaults on either day. Disturbing. Why wouldn’t a police officer log a stop at a party house? Unless he was covering his tracks. Schak checked the criminal databases again, this time looking for a match to the perp’s MO. Sexual predators galore, especially those who preyed on young women, but none that recorded their attempts to extort money from their victim’s parents. He called Agent River at the local FBI office but got her voice mail. Of course, it was Sunday. He left a message, then called the main bureau in Langley and asked to talk to a profiler.
After a long wait, a gruff voice came on. “Special Agent Ward. How can I help you?”
Schak introduced himself and laid out his case. “Can you give me any kind of profile? His age? His background? Anything to help steer me in the right direction.” He tried to push aside his worry that the perp was a patrol officer. A cop’s presence at both parties could be expected. The department had cracked down recently on underage drinking events, especially around campus.
Wrongful Death (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 10